


You Need a New Raincoat

by compo67



Series: Chicago Verse [104]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Baking, Banter, Chef Dean, Cooking, Curtain Fic, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Dean Winchester, Domestic Fluff, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Growing Old Together, M/M, Old Married Couple, POV Sam Winchester, Post-Series, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-01
Packaged: 2018-09-03 12:56:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8714782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: It started over an argument in the coat section at Macy's.Then Dean stopped preparing meals. Sam tested this change in the only way he knew how: he served Dean a can of spaghettios for dinner.Dean ate half the contents of the bowl, pushed it aside, and continued reading through yet another volume without a single comment or complaint.Something was up.





	

“You need a new raincoat.”

“You need a new face.”

“Dean. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner you can get back to lying on the couch doing nothing.”

“I was  _ resting _ .”

“Oh, excuse me. I’m so sorry that I care about your well-being.” 

“You obviously don’t. You dragged me out here.”

“It’s Macy’s, not Siberia.” 

“We’re down here on a Saturday afternoon, Sam. Only idiots come to State Street on Saturday afternoons.”

“Well, we’re going to be dry idiots with new raincoats. Try this one on.”

“I hate that color.”

“You’re not even going to try it on?”

“Nope.”

“You’re going to make this difficult, huh?”

“Yep.”

“Stop pointing your cane at me.”

“I’m not touching you.”

“I didn’t say you were touching me. Stop  _ pointing _ at me.”

Five painful minutes later, Dean wandered. How exactly he made it downstairs to the housewares department, Sam never really understood. And how Sam managed to follow him through the swarm of November tourists remains another mystery. Sam expected for Dean to lead him to a set of expensive cookware. Instead, Dean stopped at the largest cluster of tourists positioned in front of a cooking demonstration. 

For the rest of the day, Dean was unusually quiet. 

He even agreed to one of the raincoats Sam chose for him without any further struggle. 

What confused Sam even more was that this intense, quietly observant state of being did not immediately leave. Friendly, bantering conversations decreased, swapped out for studious, steely silence. It was like Dean had been refitted. Even his time in the garage diminished, as he spent hours in the living room, running his hands over the smooth pages of definitive volumes on cooking. 

Adding to the mystery, Dean ceased preparing meals. For a week they survived on what was quick and handy, like boxed macaroni and cheese or leftovers benevolently bestowed on them by Mrs. Martinez. 

Sam tested this change in the only way he knew how: he served Dean a can of spaghettios for dinner. 

Dean ate half the contents of the bowl, pushed it aside, and continued reading through yet another volume without a single comment or complaint. 

Something was up.

Their routine at night was no less affected. Books followed them to bed, though they started to appear on Dean’s nightstand instead. When Sam wanted an arm around him, or for some time to stretch out together, their closeness had not suffered. Still, gone were the ribbing jokes, the snide remarks, the ridiculous outbursts of nostalgia and sentiment. It was odd. 

And in the end, Sam decided, it was  _ too  _ odd.

What to do? Dean was not unhappy. He was fixated. Sam caught him listening to the sound of bread. And the two times they had sex that week, Dean seemed… warmer. Hungrier. Filled with appetite and longing. 

Nothing made sense to Sam. 

Over lunch with colleagues, as he pretended to be interested in their conversations, he thought through the astonishing change in Dean’s demeanor. What were his behaviors trying to tell Sam? Since Dean would not verbally express the shift, this change, Sam had nothing but nonverbal cues. He read his brother, multiple times, as often as he could. 

One morning, it clicked. 

Sam watched Dean toast two slices of bread. He used the stove top, keeping an eye on each slice, flipping the slices before they would crisp. His hands worked quickly, never allowing heat or flame to attack his fingertips.

Of course. 

It seemed so obvious to him later, after he paid for the whole thing, it was almost absurd. 

Receipt and tickets in hand, Sam announces to Dean that they will now be leaving. Yes, right now. Seven in the morning on a rather gray Friday one week before Thanksgiving. The high is expected to be no more than sixty-five degrees, a far cry from the eighties and nineties the city battled all summer. However, sixty-five heralds a time of celebration for Sam: this is perfect sweater weather. Not only does he dress in a merlot sweater layered over a rose button down, he manages to wrangle Dean into a similar outfit. Gray highlights Dean’s eyes, and makes him more distinguished. Of course, putting Dean in anything above business casual clothing is much like putting costumes on cats. 

“Wherever we’re going,” Dean growls in the car, “I’m making a  _ huge _ scene when we get there.” 

Despite the threat, Sam presses on. He withholds a specific address, instructing Dean to turn here or there every few miles. I-55 takes them out of the city, headed towards St. Louis. 

Two hours east and the terrain around them transforms from concrete and glass to open views and prairie grass. Dean stops complaining once he can put the Impala at ninety without worry. Out from narrow streets, sidewalks perfumed with exhaust, and the yowl of L trains above they drive. The stretch of road comforts their nerves for different reasons. 

Anxiety finds its way back to Sam five miles out from their destination. What if Dean hates this? Worse, what if he doesn't feel anything about it? Sam can handle love or hate, but apathy from Dean brings back unpleasant memories. 

“Which way?”

“Huh?”

“Left or right, you only got those two choices.”

“Right,” Sam breathes. 

“You mean turn right or right like yeah you heard me?”

“Dean, please turn right. Is that better?”

“If that’s all you can do, I suppose.” 

It's no spontaneous trip to France, but it was the best Sam could do. This can be a stepping stone. 

The house was built in 1940. Its owner had emigrated from France and had their home built like their childhood chateau. Complex rooflines, elaborate pale blue stone and gray brick, and several tall chimneys sit on a lightly wooded area. Two stained glass windows frame the navy double French doors. It's a wonderful way to spend a fortune. 

All that needs to be said can be understood in Dean’s expression, and in his awed silence as he parks the car on the ornate stone driveway. 

Silence like this is a good sign. 

Boots crunch on gravel soon enough. Sam follows and lingers a few steps behind. He allows a minute or two for Dean to take it all in--the wrap around porch complete with chair swing, the neatly-trimmed lawn, and the expanse of land. Impressive as it is, there’s more to this place than the outside. Sam leads, up the five steps to the porch and produces a set of iron keys. 

Inside, tasteful, simple decor greets them throughout. Fresh flowers stand at the ready on a circular mahogany table in the foyer. A cool coral blue and pure white thread through each room they pass: a parlor, a study, and a library. Crown molding provides an elevated accent and dark mocha floors add contrast. Details here and there add warmth--blankets laid out on the leather couches and arm chairs in the parlor, fine wallpaper with a navy blue, floral pattern in the library, and porcelain lamps in place of harsh ceiling lighting. 

All this fades as Sam guides Dean, still wordless, into the kitchen. 

Someone wonderful created this space. They put time and effort into the design. Natural light from French windows and skylights drape over every accent and detail: pure white subway tile backsplash, steel faucet, mother of pearl cabinets complete with intricate moldings, chrome fixtures, double bowl sink, recycled glass countertops, ceramic tile floor, and a broad, spacious island. Classic French countryside melds with contemporary accessibility and convenience. 

Some cooks blossom later in life, after a childhood spent with one hand working a can opener and the other steadying the can of spaghettios. 

The cabinets and rack hanging above the island house every tool imaginable and necessary for the chef: ceramic cookware, cast iron, saucepan, cooking pot, stock pot, steamer pot, skillet, pans of all sizes. Black bar stools line one side of the island to provide a front row view of the show. 

“I rented this place,” Sam murmurs, setting his bags down for a minute, “for the whole week.” 

That studious silence joins them here, even as Dean inspects the plumbing, the sink, both gourmet ovens, the dishwasher, and the fully stocked fridge and pantry. Ample space allows for extra storage and features, such as an entire cabinet dedicated to sheltering a spice collection or the extra large griddle and double range. Dean peeks into the butler’s pantry around the corner and spots the space for wine storage.

Dean smooths his hands over a section of the island where a cutting board has been placed like an invitation. Sam holds his breath. Was he way off? Did he do wrong? Is it possible he read Dean incorrectly? 

“This is all for me?” Dean looks up. Their eyes meet. “All week?” 

Sam gives a quick, nervous smile. “Yeah, I mean, I thought you’d… like to do something different this year. There’s a garden out back, a fountain, you know, if the weather picks up.” 

They had plans for the holiday--a visit to Mrs. Martinez’s, a drop-in at Luis’, their annual trip to check in on Kevin and drag him out of the bunker to remember what daylight looks like. Sam respectfully changed these plans. 

Afraid that Dean’s lack of response means something negative brewing, Sam reveals a surprise he meant to keep for later. “Uh, there’s a barn too, that’s what this used to be back in the twenties. But the owner renovated it when she worked on the house. She said you’re welcome to tour the barn and take a spin in a few, but you have to promise to be careful.” 

Dean’s brow furrows. “Be careful with what?” 

“Oh--classic cars. She collects them. She said something about a Aston Martin? DBS?” 

Every single cabinet door flies open. 

“Sam,” Dean gasps, wheezing with excitement. He grips onto the island with one hand and clutches his chest with the other. “Take the bags to our room. I’m making lunch.” 

 

They eat Moules a la Mariniere. Potato-leek soup. Bacon quiche.

Butter. Cream. Butter. Garlic. Cream. Butter. Cheese. 

This is food poetry.

Potato gratin stacks on a rainy Sunday morning--thin-sliced potatoes carefully stacked into muffin tins, with a drizzle of cream, butter, cheese, and thyme--accompanied by sausage patties Dean made with the meat grinder he found, finished off with scrambled eggs as light as the down pillows they sleep on in the master suite upstairs. 

French onion soup in the parlour, tumblers of cognac to wash down. 

Poulet Roti, which calls for a three pound, whole chicken, salt, butter, olive oil, and shallots. Dean adds carrots, slices them with a peeler, his hands moving with the same elegance as he wields any weapon. He gathers three strips of paper-thin carrot and curls them to form roses. 

Dessert does not suffer. 

Butter. Cream. Butter. Michigan cherries. Buter. Sugar. Milk.

Cherry Clafouti. Chocolate mousse. Boca Negra cake. Madeleines. 

Large eggs. Granulated sugar. Butter. Vanilla. Peaches.

Peach and creme fraiche pie. Peach cake with honey cognac icing. Vanilla custard. Tarte Normande aux Pommes. Orange Bavarian Cream. Strawberry sherbert. Sam licks that one off of Dean’s fingers, lapping it up, warm all over from the meal, the aged liquor, their down comforter, and press of their bodies over a mattress so soft they sink. 

Roasted Mission figs with honey. Roulade au Chocolat. 

Rhubarb with berries and candied ginger. 

Butter. Cream. Sugar. Butter. Cream. Cheese.

Hazelnut truffle cheesecake. Sam eats it in blocks, as he spends far less time in the library and far more time in the barn. He bundles them up every time, putting Dean’s new raincoat to good use, glad for its sturdy lining. Dean pops the hood of every single one of the cars and explains, while Sam eats, what is what and why it’s special. Each car has a story, even if he doesn’t know its particular details. He drives the Impala around to the barn and works on her in view of the other cars. Sam sits in the passenger’s seat--his seat--and eats the last of the white wine vinaigrette salad Dean made from scratch earlier that afternoon. 

November turns cold, but they wouldn’t know it. The barn is heated, temperature-controlled. 

Boeuf Bourguignon heats up the kitchen and the dining nook that presents a full view of the gardens. Many flowers have retreated for the season, but some perennials stick it out. 

They spend all day Tuesday eating leftovers, warming them up in sauce pans and skillets. A bottle of white wine helps them stay warm and slightly giddy. 

Dean enjoys things that take time. He prefers to make bread from scratch, prefers to work on cars that require more than just an oil change, prefers to listen to an album instead of a playlist. They were not raised this way. Everything about their lives has focused on the absence of time. His challenge as a child was to stretch meals out, make them as quickly as possible, and prepare to move from one place to another. Food was prepackaged or ordered or boxed. 

And they did not spend hours in bed, draped over each other, tangled and comfortable and warm, with their mouths pressed together. Distraction from these thoughts in the spaces of his mind pulls at him in the form of Dean’s confident hands. They work the curves of Sam’s hips, past his plaid pajama pants, slipping down, groping and squeezing, like he did the dough for plain French bread early this morning. 

Flour. Water. Yeast. Salt. 

Sam begs to be treated like that bread.

To be separated, poured, formed, pressed, covered, and allowed to rise. 

Sam lays Dean down in their bed and shows him a few things related to perfect bread: glow, outside color, balanced inclusion, smooth inside. He breaks like the finished product--even and tender--straddled over Dean. The bed supports them underneath and all around, warm like the oven. 

“That’s magic,” Sam murmurs with a laugh, sitting up, shoulders back. 

“What is?” 

“How you always manage to have lube handy.”

“It’s convenient,” Dean exhales, tugging the hem of Sam’s shirt, which happens to be his. “You’re too far.”

Close is what they never quite got because it never seemed attainable. Or permanent. Were they that young once? People their age say it feels like yesterday for them, but Sam doesn’t feel it. He hasn’t in a long time. He likes his past in the past. Present in the present. 

He leans back to adjust pressure and rides Dean in firm, steady motions. They’re close like dough on a baking stone. Dean reaches out, scrapes Sam towards him, lifts their hips up, and slides in at a deeper angle. Control transferred, Sam rests against Dean, chest to chest, and moans out at each languid, solid thrust. One hand tangles into Sam’s hair and pulls with the exact amount of force. The other settles on his hips, kneading like hands that do not ever depend on a mixer.

All morning, Sam watched.

Flour. Water. Yeast. Salt. 

He watched the surface smooth out and become somewhat sticky. He watched it rest for three minutes while Dean washed and dried a few things. And while it rose for the required three hours, he watched Dean sip white wine straight from the bottle. The wine left his lips red and sweet and the beard that grew throughout the week scratched at Sam’s chin in between swigs and mouthfuls of reheated Boeuf Bourguignon. 

There was no rush or need for a plot or an ending. When the timer went off, Dean simply took Sam’s hand and guided them from the armchair in the library back to the kitchen. There were twenty steps exactly, according to the recipe, and they emptied two bottles of wine and the entire fridge. 

Sam places his mouth over Dean’s and tastes the sweetness of their drink and the perfect crust of Dean’s handmade bread. They might never eat again--their last meal would be pieces of bread broken off the loaf with their hands and a few quick nips of crisp, chilled wine. 

“I’m gonna come.” Sam bumps their noses together and catches Dean’s mouth in a sloppy, slick kiss.

“You feel that?” Dean tilts his hips. 

“Oh… yeah.”

“Close your eyes.”

“Uh huh.” 

“Don’t… open.”

“I… I’m... “

“Not yet.”

Sam never stops moving his hips, tightening and releasing all around Dean, drawing him in deeper, encouraging him to pound harder. Reluctant, obedient, he clings to the edge of pressure and pain and pleasure. And in the unfairness typical of older siblings, Dean draws out his thrusts, extending the intervals of pressure applied to a particular spot. Sam lets out a sound of hunger. Like he hasn’t eaten. Like he is starved and ravenous and greedy and possessive and…

Dean presses a strawberry, dipped in champagne, against Sam’s lips.

And issues one single command. 

“Bite.” 

Sam breaks like a baking stone left too close to the oven. 

 

It rains the next day, which happens to be Thanksgiving. Dean wraps up the three pies he made that morning to take to Mrs. Martinez’s. Sam hauls the cooked twenty pound turkey into the Impala, placing it and its aluminum pan in the footwell because Dean wants to prevent anything happening to the seats.

They stand outside for a minute and take a last look at the house. 

“Nice choice,” Dean says. He bumps his shoulder against Sam’s. 

“Thanks.” Sam bumps back. “Nice raincoat.” 

Dean looks down at his shoes and smiles. “Thanks. It’s new.” 

On the drive back, Dean complains about everything and nothing at all. 

**Author's Note:**

> whee! finally posting this! stayed up too late writing, but the muse was with me so i couldn't resist. 
> 
> i make myself hungry writing things like this. sigh. someone come make me food. even if it's a grilled cheese!
> 
> love getting back to it with these two. loved even more writing something sweet. comments are love! <3


End file.
